


Drawn to the Blood

by Monti



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, claps poetic cinema, two old men in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monti/pseuds/Monti
Summary: He spoke in the language of imprecise grief throughout it all, in his violent end and then again when he was reborn in an equally harrowing beginning. It was all the same, a method of carrying his body back to his beloved witcher.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	1. Prologue

A cold, trembling hand reached for his own, the once perfectly polished nails now chipped and scarred as they held on for dear life. In that instant, they were prepared to die once more, together. It had not been the first time Yennefer and her Witcher had danced with death, yet this time felt more severe, the wall of destructive magics surrounding them impenetrable. 

Vilgefortz was screaming his name in a wash of raw, unrelenting anger, fuelling the chaos around them. The floor began to give way, the walls collapsing and the ceiling crumbling into nothingness above them. His strength hadn’t been enough, he hadn’t been enough to protect them. Once more, he ran into the centre of a fight he couldn’t win, and once again, it would lead to death.

He whispers an apology to Yennefer, a dear companion of his regardless of their relationship status, which changed like the seasons. He wasn’t built for love or commitment, always hurting the ones who care for him in the end. His life was filled with fear, pain and violence, and it was no place for a woman he loved. Being alone wasn’t so bad, at least not at the moment. 

Being alone would mean only him dying, the consequences of their actions falling solely onto him. Solitude was the Witcher’s true path, and it made more sense now than it ever had before. Not only had he not been able to see Ciri, he had doomed both himself and Yennefer to nothingness. He can only hope the ashen haired girl won’t be too mad at him, he hadn’t died in his bed after all- a Witcher never does.

They wait for impact, for the final blow, the familiar kiss of death no longer lingering in the air. Yet, it was not meant for them after all, but for the being now standing over them protectively. A slim yet powerful figure, holding a defensive stance in the line of fire directed at them both. Yennefer uses this to her advantage, slipping away from the chaos as she looks for a way out of the magical barrier.

Before Geralt can register who this supposed stranger was, flames engulf them, the light and heat so immense that it even burned Yennefer, who was on the other side of the large room. There was no scream, no cry of anguish or help, simply the sound of fire consuming and then- nothing. He realised it then, as he saw the crimson puddle of goop melting into the floor, the sound of sizzling emitting from its form carrying an awful odour. 

Eerie sounds of screeching are carried with the wind as time slows, ravens circling above them at a frantic pace, voices ear piercingly loud even amongst the ruin. Geralt uses this opportunity, this distraction, to attack the wizard, the cards finally playing in his favour. He tries not to think about what has been lost as he sees his enemy finally cease his struggle, such a dreadful existence was finally no more. 

There was no reprieve, no solace, no holy light from above to soothe him or congratulate him on his victory. He stood alone, amongst the debris, staring at the puddle that was once his best friend.


	2. Dusty Library, Mid Afternoon

Toussaint was a beautiful place, filled with ethereal landscapes and the most delicate of wines made with the monarchy in mind. Geralt had only been a couple of times, back when his loyal bard was having a rendezvous with the Duchess, which went as well as you’d expect. With the end of that relationship, so came the end of his own relationship with Beauclair. 

Or so he thought, until he received a contract from the duchy to rid their land of a murdered they assume to be of a monstrous nature. Geralt wasn’t entirely sure what it was yet, but he wouldn’t turn down this contract, not with the reward he’d receive. 

It’s not like he desperately needed the money anymore, he had spent a lot of time grinding out contracts from royalty to peasantry, saving it up so he’d never go without. A massage here, new armour there, and sometimes a night drinking with Eskel and Lambert. He’d learned to enjoy the little things, to splurge sometimes, and to not always be so serious about life. 

They’d been through too much shit, and after defeating the wild hunt once and for all, everyone involved was in need of some reprieve. There were many who were close to him that didn’t see the end of it, didn’t get to taste the victory in their long-term enemy’s defeat, Vesemir being the first that comes to mind. Everyone grieved his loss, an important part of Kaer Morhen’s history lost with him, gone in what felt like an instant. 

He thinks back to others he has lost, from Sorceresses turned martyrs to rulers of men, so many have came and went in his century-long lifetime. Just when he thinks he’s done reminiscing, a toothy grin flashes in his mind, a soft English accent mumbling something he can’t make out. His chest becomes tight as he reaches for the memory, trying to remember more details, more depth, more, more, more. 

Lily-of-the-valley, mandrake whiskey, the scent of myrrh. Standing in a peaceful library, dust particles visible in the light which is peaking from the stained glass windows. Just past lunchtime, turning behind him, a low hum fills the air, birds chirp outside as they enjoy the fruits on the trees. A feeling of security, a sudden wave of emotion, and then there is nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

He startles from his thoughts, one of the knights gives him a strange look in passing. With a dull ache in his soul he carries on towards the abandoned farmhouse, where the last siting of the “beast” had been. There is an eerie atmosphere as he walks in, using his Witcher senses to pick up any clues. He felt a presence but couldn’t detect what it was, a fleeting feeling every time he turned his back. 

There were footprints, large enough to be a mans, the indentation of the shoe giving the impression that the person who left it was wealthy, the pattern only seen on the soles of the monarchy and upper class. Curious, he followed the trail, but it suddenly ends near the window. Furthermore, there were no footprints outside, as he’d already checked twice. With a huff of frustration he turns back, ready to start his search again. 

The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, there was still remainders of what he assumed was live stock scattered in the damp corners. Flies and mice had made their homes in the spacious, abandoned building, the only scent trail he could catch was rat urine and fly faeces. It was unpleasant but nothing he hadn’t seen before, and it lacked the usual monster blood and entrails he had grown to associate with contracts. 

Looking down at the floor again, a swirl of mist catches his eye, weaving in and out between the buildings pillars towards him. He steps back in precaution, only for his back to slam against something solid. There hadn’t been anything there before, and his Witcher senses hadn’t picked up anything behind him. He’s quick to react, but not quick enough, and he’s thrown to the floor with brute force. 

The room shakes as a figure looms over him, everything suddenly very dark and daunting. He wouldn’t say he feels fear, but he’s not exactly happy about the situation at hand. Unaware of what he’s dealing with, except for the fact he apparently can’t sense it’s movement, he feels at a loss for once. 

What preparation or tactic could he use if he wasn’t even sure what the enemy was. In a quick second he decides to flash igni at the intruder, the sound of burning and a mans angry groan reaching his ears. He hazards a glance towards the sound, and his eyes widen at the side before him. He looked like a normal man, except for his nails extending beyond what was natural, his teeth almost reaching the bottom of his chin, and his face was distorted slightly, giving an almost bat-like appearance.

This was a higher vampire, something a witcher never takes a contract on. He swears under his breath and reaches into his pockets, trying to fish out the bottle of black blood he had stashed away somewhere. Another curse slips from his lips when he remembers his potions were in roach’s saddlebag, and the realisation sinks in that this was not a fight he would win. 

The vampire, standing again almost completely unscathed, is now furious. He lunges, quicker than any nekker or drowner, and his sharp claws reach for his stomach. There wasn’t any time for him to react, not even enough to sign Quen, so he simply closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable, excruciating pain that was to come. Vesemir would be disappointed, but at least he didn’t die in his bed. Instead, he would die at the hands of a powerful higher vampire, a very witcher-like death. 

It was almost comical, how he had defeated the king of the wild hunt but couldn’t even touch a vampire with his sword. Perhaps he should have chosen retirement, or he could have just rejected the contract, conflict with Toussaint a small piece to pay in exchange for his life and ego. If he lived through this, which wasn’t likely, Lambert would never let him live it down. That thought alone actually makes him WANT to die, that prick’s smug grin more unbearable than the pain he would feel in a short second. 

Except, there was no pain. He waits another second, thinking perhaps it hadn’t registered yet, but when he blinks his cat-eyes open he is met with a mans back, shielding him from the claws which had torn their way through said strangers back. It was grotesque, even for Geralt, and the stranger didn’t even make a sound, simply pushed the vampire away, claws included. A large hole was in the mans torso, bleeding profusely, and the vampire reacted in disgust. It was an odd exchange, as if the man had offended the vampire by getting hurt in Geralt’s stead. 

“Why?” The vampire growls, voice gravely with a hint of an unidentifiable accent. 

The vampire shifts, features turning more human, teeth and nails retracting. It was all so unnerving, yet he couldn’t look away, eyes darting between the vampire and his random saviour, who was somehow still alive and standing. That realisation really woke him up, and not only did this stranger not seem human at all, but they knew the higher vampire that and attacked him moments ago. 

The man shuffles forward, resting a hand on the vampires shoulder. A soft, yet commanding voice with an English twang fills the room, and Geralt is brought back to a peaceful library, dust particles visible in the light which is peaking from the stained glass windows. Just past lunchtime, turning behind him, a low hum fills the air, birds chirp outside as they enjoy the fruits on the trees. A feeling of security, a sudden wave of emotion, and it’s everything all at once. 

“He is my friend.”


End file.
